Two Fans Two Tales

She could barely walk, weak from chemotherapy, but Barbara Sanders made it to training camp last summer to sit a few minutes in the broiling sun and watch her beloved Atlanta Falcons practice.

So what if the Falcons were perennial losers? Sanders, a working-class housewife, had been doting on them for more than 30 years. Like a proud mama, she was always there to root for pro football's misfits.

Some 2,500 miles to the west, in suburban Denver, Tim McKernan put the finishing touches on two new midnight-blue barrels last summer.

For most of the last 20 seasons, McKernan has strapped a barrel around himself and paraded through Denver Broncos games wearing little else.

The 1997 barrel was retired after the Broncos won a Super Bowl last year on their fifth try. McKernan had the Bronco players autograph the championship barrel, now his most prized possession.

Today, Sanders and McKernan will sit on opposite ends of Pro Player Stadium for Super Bowl XXXIII.

People like them have become a rarity at pro football's glitzy annual championship. They are tried-and-true fans -- ordinary folks who have lived with their teams through a lot of thin and not much thick.

Look around the Super Bowl today, and you'll find the cocktail set, television types, political bigwigs, movie moguls, sports stars and a who's who of the rich and famous in America. After all, how many of the 7 million or so in Denver and Atlanta can fork over $2,000 or more for a scalped ticket and another few grand for hotels and airfare?

McKernan, an airline mechanic, and Sanders, the wife of a retired aircraft mechanic, are two of the lucky few thousand hometown fans who snared tickets in their teams' lotteries for a mere $325 apiece.

"It's the thrill of a lifetime," Sanders said. "This ranks right up there with the day you say `I do' and the day your firstborn comes through the chute. You know, the more I think about it, it may even be above all of 'em."

"It's a day like no other," said McKernan, who swears he stores kinetic energy in those barrels. "I wouldn't miss it for anything in the world."

Life among the logos

Sanders sat last weekend in her living room -- well, it's more a shrine to the Falcons these days -- and basked in her team's newfound stature. After 33 years of futility, the Falcons finally will appear in the Super Bowl.

Sanders wore a Falcons sweatshirt with an autograph from Falcons coach Dan Reeves on one shoulder. Falcons earrings dangled from her ears. Falcons brooches and pendants hung from her neck, along with a glittering gold cross on a chain. A Falcons bracelet jangled on her wrist.

Towering signs of Falcons cheer dot the lawn and the front of the Sanderses' ranch house. Neighbors come from miles around just to see all the Falcons stuff.

As head of the Falcon Bird Watchers, a loose band of a few hundred Falcons die-hards, Sanders has been flooded with phone calls.

From Good Morning America. From radio outlets as far away as Denver. From friends and people she never heard of, all wanting tickets.

Can you sing the Falcons song, she is asked? Can you find a ticket for someone dying of a terminal disease? Can you be live on the six o'clock news? Can you tell me the cheapest way to Miami?

"When the Roseanne Barr show called, that's when I lost it," Sanders said. "I mean, that was over the top. But you have to wonder. Where were all these people when the Falcons were losing? It used to be no one wanted to be seen with us."

For Sanders, now 62, the love affair with the Falcons built slowly. After the team was formed in 1966, she and her husband, John, began attending games at Fulton County Stadium.

"Mostly it was entertainment and curiosity that got us there," she said. "I guess you could say we just got hooked."

By 1974, Sanders had decided to get a job as a manager at a children's clothing store so she and John could afford season tickets.

Over the years, the two have been to more games than they can count -- and witnessed some awful moments in Falcon history.

One season, some fans arrived wearing bags over their heads to protest the dismal play. On one cold afternoon, there were so few fans in the stands that all of them were able to sit in a small corner on the sunny side of the field.

Even this year, with the Falcons suddenly winning with regularity, the Sanderses often found themselves surrounded by fans from the visiting teams. Atlanta is a city of migrants, many of whom maintain their old football allegiances. And corporations make up the bulk of the 33,000 season ticket holders.

"In most cities, you go to the stadium and sit by the same people," said John Sanders, 67. "But here, every week we have different neighbors. They would look at us like we were the visitors.''